Whispers in Silence
by BeckyS
Summary: Adam Cartwright is injured in a mine cavein, with devastating results. [WIP, still working on it. 2 April 06]
1. Whispers, Part 1 rev 15 Nov

_Notes:   
-- I was posting this story in sections on a list that has gone inactive, so I'll try to continue it here. It is definitely a work-in-progress, and chapters aren't going to show up on any kind of a regular basis. Sorry about that, but I have several other stories I'm trying to complete as well, and then there's Real Life, LOL. Hope you can hang in on this one – I'll move along on it as fast as I can.   
-- As is common for me, as I progress through writing a story, I end up going back and changing little things here and there so that the story runs more smoothly. I'll post the revision dates at the top of any chapter I rework. Generally, they won't be big changes, maybe the addition of a paragraph here, changing a sentence there. If there are any major revisions, I'll let you know. Thanks for your patience . . . here's a bit more . . .   
-- Chapter 1, revised 10 Oct 04   
ahem Sorry, but I've decided there were only two men killed in the cave-in. This number may change in the future, so if you get into the story a ways and discover that the number has changed again – well, I'll settle it when I get to the final version, LOL.   
-- A few more changes 15 Nov 04. I'll get all of the sections changed out to their new version soon. _

* * *

_**Whispers in Silence -- 1   
**by BeckyS   
15 Nov 2004_

_Coma_. Such a small word to so thoroughly destroy their lives. It was what the doctor called this immobile silence that had persisted since Adam Cartwright had been pulled, limp and bloody, from the mine cave-in seven days ago. Everyone had slapped his father on the back and called him lucky since his eldest was still breathing and the other two men who'd been with him weren't, but now Ben wasn't so sure.

This morning, as he had for so many days and nights, he sat at his son's bedside. For the first few days he'd hardly left this room, but once Paul Martin had managed to convince him that there would be no quick recovery – that he would soon ruin his own health and so be useless to Adam or his other two boys – he'd consented to getting proper rest and meals. He brought his work upstairs and took over his son's desk; the normally neat and organized surface now littered with papers and ledgers as he reviewed contracts and answered correspondence. He'd flatly refused to do anything that took him out of the vicinity of the ranch house, and even when his family managed to get him outside for some fresh air, he found his gaze returning, over and over, to the window of Adam's room where his son grew thinner and paler as time passed and their hopes gradually withered.

He was grateful that Hoss and Joe never pushed him to go to town, and was mildly amused at how they'd discovered a multitude of jobs that needed doing around the house, barn, and home corral. What he didn't find amusing at all, but that touched his heart, was how – like their father – they frequently stopped whatever they were doing to gaze at the same window.

A light spring breeze fluttered the lace curtains as Ben rose from his wooden chair and stretched. He fingered the delicate fabric, musing on how it had exposed a thereto-unknown aspect of his son's personality. Marie had made the first set of the soft draperies, and although Adam had raised an eyebrow, he'd let them stay . . . and when they wore out, went to considerable trouble to have them reproduced.

He returned the ledger he'd been studying to the pile on Adam's desk. Funny, he mused, how quickly you get used to a new routine. As the days passed with no change in his son's condition, he'd started bringing the ranch books upstairs every morning, often talking out loud about various problems. It had started as simple frustration when he couldn't get two columns to balance. He'd glanced at Adam and could almost hear the humorous baritone say, _It's only mathematics, Pa. The answer's there, you just have to give it a chance to turn up. _He'd smiled at the memory, and when he pulled out a fresh piece of scrap paper for his figuring, the columns had almost magically matched.

Now he found himself holding one-sided discussions with him. When he talked about moving certain groups of cattle to new pastures, he remembered Adam saying that the special grass seed he'd ordered from St. Louis was due in to the Feed and Grain in a few days. While worrying at the pros and cons of various locations to dig new wells, his thoughts were punctuated by several barbed comments on the value of windmills. As he reviewed the possibilities for investing the profits from the lumber operation, he vividly remembered Adam pacing back and forth in front of his desk, trying to convince him to buy a second blade for the sawmill. Each time, Ben had known exactly what questions, observations and solid advice his son would offer.

He'd heard Hoss and Joe doing the same thing when they took their turns watching over their brother. Hoss talked about one of the mares that was about to foal, going over a new balance of ingredients for the warm mash he planned to make for her. He considered the different measurements out loud and asked what Adam thought. There was no response, of course – he expected none – so he argued the question from both sides, one half of his conversation sounding eerily like his older brother.

Joe told Adam about the calves he'd had to pull from the spring bogs and wondered if the grass at Spooner Lake was ready for grazing. He'd paused as if Adam had actually spoken, then answered, _All right, all right, I'll go look at it again . . . yeah, I'll check the color and thickness of the blades along with the height, just like you taught me._

All of them acted as if Adam was only resting his eyes instead of dying a slow death one day at a time in the bedroom at the top of the stairs.

Paul Martin, the family doctor, had held out little hope. He'd taught them how to care for Adam, how to cautiously turn his body so he wouldn't get bedsores, how to get water and broth into him so that thirst and starvation wouldn't help kill him, but they all knew that the longer the coma lasted, the less likely he was to ever come out of it. And even if he did . . .

Ben shuddered. It wasn't a conversation he'd had with Paul, but he'd overheard when the boys cornered the family doctor one evening. They'd asked to know the worst, expecting Paul to say that Adam would die. Ben had strained to hear his friend's answer, and when it came the horror had knocked the strength from his body. How could they survive, what would it do to Hoss and Joe, if Adam came back to them – but without his mind?

A skull fracture – a broken bone. It sounded so simple. Adam's fractured right wrist and the small bones that had been broken in his right hand would be back to normal in a few weeks; the ribs that had been cracked by the rocks that had nearly buried him were probably well on their way to healing. When Joe had broken his leg last spring, it had taken only a couple of months for him to get back to riding. But the bones of the head, when broken, could press against the brain, could damage it beyond repair. Ben had been the first to see the blood coming from Adam's ear, the first to notice the soft sponginess at his left temple under the blood-soaked hair.

He still felt ill at the memory.

He pulled out a solicitation for a bid on a lumber deal with one of the mines in Gold Hill from the pile of papers on the desk and tried to lose himself in determining schedules, costs and payroll. He took notes, jotting down questions he'd have to send his men to find out, well aware that Adam had known the answers. He sighed and put his pencil down, then rubbed at his forehead. "How long?" he found himself murmuring. "How long do we go on in this . . . this limbo?"

The answer came back immediately. _As long as it takes._ He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There was no other option. He wouldn't give up; he couldn't. He had to believe that Adam would come back to them, would come back and be his old self. He lowered his hand to gaze at his son again.

Who was looking straight back at him.

* * *


	2. Whispers, Part 2 rev 15 Nov

_**Whispers in Silence -- 2   
**by BeckyS   
15 Nov 2004_

By the time Ben had yelled for Joe to go for the doctor, Adam's eyes had closed, and he'd sunk once more into deep silence.

When Paul arrived, he was cautiously hopeful. He knew Ben well, and knew the conclusion he would have reached. His friend would take his son with half a mind, or no mind at all, if that's what God intended, always believing that he could bring his eldest back by sheer force of will. Truly, the old adage _Where there's life, there's hope_ applied to Ben Cartwright more than anyone he'd ever known.

Paul described the various tests he wanted them to try if— here he was interrupted by Joe, who inserted emphatically "when" —Adam opened his eyes again. He cautioned that Adam might not actually be awake, even though he'd seem to be looking at them. The tests would help them determine how aware he was. They were to keep a log of everything that happened, including times and circumstances.

"For example," he said, "if he opens his eyes when Hop Sing enters the room with a tray of food, it could be he's reacting to the aroma of the broth. Hearing, smell, touch – these are the ways to reach him. Watch for small responses. If you squeeze his hand, does he squeeze back? Do his eyes follow you as you move around the room? Does he flinch or make any sound when you adjust the splint on his broken wrist or when you change the dressings on that gash on his leg? Write down anything he says, as well as whether or not it makes sense. That will give us some good clues as to how he's doing."

Hoss and Joe exchanged glances. "You got it, Doc," said Hoss, speaking for his brother as well. "One of us'll be here with him all the time."

"I'll get one of the new ledgers from downstairs," Joe offered.

Ben was silent, and the doctor could see hope warring with fear in his eyes. "Walk me out, would you, Ben?" he asked.

Ben rose from the chair at Adam's side, and Hoss immediately eased himself into it and took his brother's undamaged hand. As they left the room, Ben heard the soft, comforting murmur Hoss used whenever he sat with an injured, frightened animal.

The two older men walked downstairs and outside without a word. It wasn't until the doctor climbed up into his buggy that Ben broke the silence.

"Tell me the truth, Paul. Is this a good sign?"

The doctor sighed as he gathered up his reins. "I didn't see him with his eyes open, so it's hard for me to judge how aware he is. Certainly this is better than the complete unresponsiveness we've seen since the accident."

"Are you saying he's getting well?"

"I don't know that I'd go that far yet, Ben. There are too many variables in this kind of injury. One thing, though – if he is getting better, he'll probably hear everything you say, even if he doesn't respond, so be careful what you talk about when you're with him."

"Would it help to talk to him?"

"If he's on his way back, yes. If this is just an aberration of his brain, an involuntary movement – well, it still won't hurt." He reached out and squeezed his old friend's shoulder, felt a slight easing of tension in the muscles. All of the Cartwrights would feel better if they could do something, _anything_ to help Adam. "Barring any emergencies, I'll come back tomorrow, and maybe I'll be able to tell you more."

"Thank you, Paul." And as Ben walked back into the house, Paul Martin thought he saw a lightening of his friend's step – hope renewed. And he well knew that when Ben Cartwright hoped and prayed, mountains moved.

* * *

It was two days before the doctor could get back to the Ponderosa. Ben didn't worry, precisely, since he knew that Paul's services were in high demand, but he fretted nonetheless. He wanted desperately to discuss his son's condition, which he found incomprehensible.

Adam had "woken" several times since the doctor's last visit, but while Ben could have sworn there was some sort of awareness in his eyes, he didn't respond to their questions.

He drank the water he was offered, but gave no indication of wanting more. He swallowed the broth Hop Sing brought, but said nothing about having had enough. And when Hoss changed the dressings on the deep half-healed gash on his left thigh, Joe reported that while Adam's eyes had been open and he'd winced a couple of times, he didn't so much as murmur a protest.

Doc Martin listened to their accounts and read with a thoughtful air the journal they'd kept so carefully, but he wouldn't draw any conclusions. Even after examining his patient, he refused to make assumptions. They left Hop Sing to watch over Adam and went back downstairs to sit at the hastily abandoned breakfast table for more coffee.

"Well, Paul?" asked Ben.

The doctor scratched his chin as he sank into the chair at the end of the table; Adam's, as it happened. "He's certainly better than he was, though the pupils of his eyes are still uneven. That tells me the brain swelling hasn't gone down enough yet. Even so, he reacted to my examination in most of the appropriate ways, though a bit slower than normal."

"Most?" Joe asked, his gaze rock steady, pushing for an explanation.

"With some of the tests I did, he should have tried to move away or say something. He didn't."

"That's the same thing we've noticed," Ben said.

Hoss sat heavily on the stones in front of the empty hearth. "He's hurtin'."

Doc Martin raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm not at all sure he's awake enough for that, Hoss."

Hoss scowled at him. "An I tell you I ain't never seen nobody hurtin' as bad as he is."

He set his cup back in its saucer. "Well, that would certainly account for some of his behavior, but how do you know?"

"Heck, Doc, I can see it, ever' time I look at him. It's plain as day, there in his eyes. I don't know what's causin' it, but I can tell you, its somethin' awful."

Paul turned thoughtful again. Everyone in the territory knew Hoss' affinity for injured creatures, so if he said his brother was suffering, then they'd do well not to discount his words. "I don't want to give him any laudanum, not at this point, but severe pain will affect his recovery." He turned to Ben. "You have ice?"

Ben looked in turn to Joe.

"Yeah," he answered grimly. "Adam and I finished filling up the ice house just before he went up to the mine."

"Good. Try placing some packs on his wrist, his leg, his ribs – see if you can figure out where the worst of the pain is. Start with the broken bones – the tissues are likely swollen around them and if you can get the swelling down, it'll ease the pain some. Use a few layers of cloth, since it doesn't seem likely he'll let you know if they're too cold. And I'd be surprised if he didn't have a whopper of a headache, too, so icepacks on his forehead or the back of his neck might help as well. Be careful of the left side of his head – if you put ice on it, don't push. Those bones are just at a point of healing, and we don't want to re-break anything. Oh, and get as much water into him as you can – you know you can get a bad headache from thirst."

"You'd think he'd tell us." Joe's eyebrows were drawn together in confusion. "Adam's not the kind to hold back on this kind of thing."

"Joe's right," said Ben. "Oh, he won't complain about sore muscles or blisters or even a bad cut. But you know, yourself, from the times you've had to dig a bullet or an arrow out of him, he'll tell you enough so you can help him. This just isn't like him."

Paul scowled. "Ben, boys, I want you to understand something. Along with the broken bones, cuts and bruises he got in that rock fall, Adam took a heck of a wallop to the head. When those rocks fractured his skull, they injured his brain. What kind of damage there is and whether or not it's permanent isn't something we're going to know for a while. You say this behavior isn't normal for him, Ben. The fact is, we don't know what normal is going to be from now on. I'm hoping and praying right alongside of you that he comes back the way he was, but I have to tell you, it's not likely. He could stay just like this for the rest of his life."

He'd been brutal, and it showed. Hoss dropped his head into his hands, Joe had turned white, and Ben gripped the arms of his chair with a strength that threatened to rip them from their joints.

"I won't accept that," Ben whispered. "I can't. He's come this far, and I will not accept that he won't get well."

"I hope you're right," Paul said, "and you know that I'll do everything I can to help him. Just don't make assumptions about what he can and can't do. We know too little about the brain to be able to predict his recovery. Especially right now, he needs gentle encouragement. Don't push him." He saw that they were beginning to understand.

"We'll watch over him, Doc," Hoss said. "Don't worry about that. And whatever it takes to make him well, you know we'll do it."

"Best thing you can do right now is talk to him. Let him know you're there. Let him sleep when he needs to, but if you think he's awake – what passes for awake with patients in this condition – find ways to gently get his attention. Remember, hearing and feeling are the first senses to come back."

Ben rose. "We'll remember, Paul, and we'll do what you suggest. When will you be back?"

"A few days. There really isn't much for me to do right now except monitor his progress, and you can probably do that better than I can. If his condition changes, send for me sooner, but otherwise I'll come out again around Saturday." He rose and picked up his bag. "No need to see me out, Ben. Go on back up to Adam."

Ben gave him a half-humorous glare of exasperation. "You know me too well," he said, but he went.

Regardless of the doctor's words, Hoss and Joe trailed after him to his buggy. Hoss was the first to speak.

"We're a mite worried 'bout Pa, too."

Paul looked back at the house, at the second-story window on the right. "The next few days could be crucial. There's nothing more I can do for Adam right now – it's up to you folks to convince him to come back to this world. If that costs you a few nights' sleep, I know none of you will mind." He climbed into his buggy. "Just make sure you get at least four hours a night, and your father gets six. Tell Hop Sing to make sure you eat well, and rest when you can. I'll be back in a few days."

"Thanks, Doc," said Hoss, and they watched him drive away. He turned to Joe. "Guess it's up to us, now."

"He's gonna get well," Joe insisted. "He's gonna get well and be just like he was before."

"I sure hope so," murmured Hoss as he threw an arm around his brother's shoulders. "I sure hope so."

* * *


	3. Whispers, Part 3 rev 15 Nov

_**Whispers in Silence -- 3   
**by BeckyS   
15 Nov 2004_

Hop Sing was back in his kitchen, and while he poured a cup of coffee, Hoss told him what the doctor said about the next few days. He explained about the ice, and by the time he'd finished his snack of coffee and four donuts, the cook had a bowl ready, complete with cloths and ties.

Hoss took the bowl upstairs and entered Adam's room quietly. "Any change?" he asked his father.

"Not really," Ben answered, a puzzled expression on his face. "But he looks . . . uncomfortable."

Hoss set the bowl on the nightstand and stood next to his father, hands on hips as he considered his brother. Adam was lying flat on his back, long arms on top of the covers at his sides, legs straight. "Yeah. You're right. I don't know why, but he don't look restful somehow."

"We've settled him like this every morning—"

Hoss shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe he's tired of it. I usually go to sleep and wake up pretty much the exact same way I laid down, but Joe wiggles around all night. Adam's somewhere in between us – usually rolls over once or twice, at least when we're sleepin' outside."

"That's how he's always been." Ben considered his eldest thoughtfully. "Let's see if we can't at least turn him a little bit, prop his bad arm up on a pillow, that sort of thing."

"I'll get a couple from Joe's room."

While Hoss went after pillows, Ben sat on the bed and brushed a few stray locks of hair from Adam's forehead. His son had been due for a haircut when he'd been caught in the mine cave-in, and wouldn't be at all pleased to see how long it was getting. It was even starting to curl at his nape. When he came out of this, they'd have to do some barbering or else Joe would start teasing his brother about looking like a riverboat gambler, a comment that, so far, had only been applied to the youngest Cartwright.

_When._ Ben realized that he had, at some point in the last few days, come to truly believe that Adam would live.

* * *

They watched him carefully, talked to him, and touched him frequently – a cool hand on the forehead, a soft damp cloth to clean his face, neck and chest, a squeeze of his hand – and congratulated each other when he opened his eyes again later that afternoon. Joe moved from the chair to the foot of the bed, delighted that his brother's gaze seemed to follow him. He stood there and called out to his father and Hoss, and they pounded up the stairs in time to see his lids flutter shut again. Joe meticulously noted the time as well as his brother's response, then gave way to Hoss' wish to stay with their brother for a while.

When Hoss found Adam watching him, he didn't call for anyone, preferring to find out what, if anything, he could accomplish between just the two of them. He told his brother about the cave-in, explained about the head injury, and promised that he would get well. Adam continued to gaze at him as if he was paying attention, as if he heard and understood every word, but he gave no response. When Hoss told him to rest a while, Adam seemed to take his suggestion, for his eyes closed, and his breathing slowed and deepened into a rhythm Hoss had known from babyhood.

This routine continued for several days, elating yet frustrating the rest of the family. They were grateful that Adam seemed to be conscious more often and for longer periods of time, but they couldn't get him to respond to anything they said. He'd blink at the sudden brightness if someone opened the curtains quickly in the mornings, and if Joe or Ben tried to change his bandages, he'd pull back, but not if Hoss or Hop Sing did it. Now and then Joe could get him to take an extra bowl of soup, but no one else had any luck at all. And when Ben read to him, he'd sometimes turn his head towards him as if he wanted to listen, but as often he'd turn away. Most frustrating of all were the times when he simply watched them.

Hoss began to swear that his brother was deep inside somewhere, hurting, but Joe didn't agree.

"He's not there," said Joe reluctantly, one night at dinner. He stared at his roast beef, unable to stomach the thought of food. The look he gave his father was full of pain and fear. "He's gone, Pa. My brother . . . he's gone."

Ben set his fork back on his plate, food untasted as well. "We don't know that, son. It's early days, yet. Look how much progress he's already made—"

"Then why won't he talk to me? He just lies there, a lump on the bed that looks like Adam, but doesn't have anything to do with him."

"Joe," inserted Hoss after a swallow of hot coffee, "he's in there. You just gotta have patience."

"You don't know that," Joe answered. "You can't."

"I do know it. Ain't nobody gonna tell me no different."

Ben touched Joe lightly on the arm. "You just have to have faith, son."

"I can't, Pa. It hurts too much to see him lyin' there. I can't just make myself believe, like you an' Hoss."

"Little brother, I ain't makin' myself do anything. I'm tellin' you, he's in there. He's hurtin' somethin' awful, but he's in there tryin' to get out."

Joe threw his napkin on the table. "How can you know that? He doesn't talk to us. He doesn't complain about how much anything hurts. He doesn't sit up or do anything except swallow soup and water and stare at us."

"Joe, didn't you listen to nothin' the doc or Pa said? We gotta give him some time. Just keep lettin' him know we're here, an' we're doing everything we can to help him. He knows when we talk to him. He needs it."

"Hoss," Ben said, hope warring with what he was afraid were Joseph's very legitimate fears, "you're so sure. Why, son?"

Hoss looked at them both like they were crazy. "I can see it. I can see it in his eyes, in the way he watches me walk around the room. I can feel it when I do them exercises the doc wants him to do, or when I'm changin' his bandages or just sittin' there with him. He's just too wore out and pained to be much of himself right now." He waved his fork at Joe. "Don't you go givin' up on him, Joe. Don't you dare. He needs us bad an' we gotta be there for him, or he might not even try. Then you'll be proved right an' he won't never get no better, an' then how'll you feel? So you just be quiet about it all an' eat your dinner."

Ben hid a smile behind his coffee cup. It was hard not to believe right along with Hoss when he took that tone of voice. And even if he still had his own fatherly reservations, he was glad to see Joe pick up his fork and try the beef. If nothing else, Hoss was right about them needing to keep their strength up. It was an appalling thought – Adam locked away somewhere inside his mind, aware, thinking, feeling, but unable to communicate anything to them. Yet . . . he knew they could reach him, somehow. They just had to be patient and, as Hoss said, believe.

* * *


	4. Whispers in Silence, Part 4 rev 10 Oct

_**Whispers in Silence -- 4  
**by BeckyS  
10 Oct 2004_

Ben became a believer the next day. He was climbing the stairs that afternoon to check on Hoss' progress in feeding his brother when he heard a tremendous crash. He rushed in to find broken crockery and soup stains spread halfway across the room. Hoss was drenched and muttering under his breath as he tried to get the worst of the mess mopped up. The mutinous glare Adam shot at him was so reminiscent of a young Little Joe that Ben barely managed to keep a straight face.

"What seems to be the problem, son?" he asked.

Hoss looked up from the liquid he'd been chasing around the floor. "I dunno, Pa. One minute I was spoonin' it into him just like regular; the next I know, he's a-wavin' his good arm around, hit the bowl and sent it flyin'."

Before he could say more, Ben held up his hand. He kept his gaze on his eldest. "Adam?" He was taking a chance, but he suddenly had a strong hunch that Hoss had been right all along.

Adam's eyes narrowed, and he glared at his brother. Or rather . . . at the pieces of the bowl Hoss had in his hands. Which had held, by the looks of the mess on the floor, chicken rice soup, never, Ben suddenly remembered, one of Adam's favorites. Oh, he could – and would, when necessary – eat just about anything. It was something he'd learned growing up on the trail, but, perhaps because of all of those years of deprivation, he'd grown particular in his tastes in recent years.

"Son?" Ben asked again and, with two fingers on Adam's chin, gently pulled his head around to face him. "Have you gotten tired of chicken?" He could see Hoss watching them carefully, but kept his attention on his eldest. Adam's expression had twisted to something resembling confusion. Ben spoke softly to Hoss. "Go see if Hop Sing has that beef broth ready and bring a cupful if it's warm."

Hoss rose with silent grace, a big man who could move without drawing attention when he wanted to. Adam didn't notice when he slipped from the room with barely a sound.

Ben sat on the bed and rested his hand on his son's shoulder. "I think you're in there, Adam. I think you're hurting and confused and, like Hoss says, worn down to near nothing. But I promise you this, son—" He squeezed gently, encouraged by the steady gaze of those dark eyes, so like his darling Elizabeth's. He swallowed hard. "I promise you this – we'll find a way to fix things. Somehow, some way, we'll bring you back."

Hoss came through the door quietly, steaming mug in hand, which he handed across the bed to his father. Ben watched Adam carefully, and knew the moment the aroma reached his son. There. There it was. An instant of recognition, of comprehension, of . . . relief. Ben smiled. "Adam, would you like some beef broth?"

Hoss lifted his brother so Ben could bring the mug to Adam's lips, and to Hoss' relief and Ben's delight, Adam drank it all. There was a curiously satisfied expression on his face as Hoss lowered him to the pillows, and as he closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep again, Ben and Hoss exchanged glances of wonder.

* * *

He'd been awash on a sea of pain, though he hadn't recognized it as such. He had no sense of self, so he had no thought of an existence without pain – it simply _was_. Sensation rushed over him; smells, tastes, sounds that made no sense, all as disturbing as the throbbing, piercing aches that suffused his entire being. Occasionally he felt something other than the hurting – something comforting – and when it left he yearned for its return, but could only wait endlessly until for no apparent reason it reappeared. Some small part of him hoped for better, but he could not conceive of what _better_ might be.

After a long while, he realized that the comfort came from the touch of another, though he wasn't sure of just what the _other_ was. His first coherent thought was to wonder if this other being existed in the same tortuous world as he did, and if so, how could he be comforted by its presence? Yet comforted he was, and for the first time, his hellish existence disappeared into blessed sleep.

He woke to the sound of a voice murmuring. He didn't understand what he heard, but the sound was somehow familiar and carried the same comfort as the touches he'd felt. The heavy darkness lifted, a world came into view, and before him was the other – a man crowned with a near-halo of thick silvery hair. He didn't wonder how he knew this was the source of his only comfort, he simply watched with the incurious patience of one who was new to the world, and eventually the man looked at him. Then chaos seemed to break loose, for the man stood suddenly and there were loud thumps and rustles and bangs, and the voice was no longer calm and comforting. It was all too much, so he retreated to the darkness once more.

After a while he realized the noise and confusion had gone away, and he opened his eyes again. The man was gone and he was alone, so he rested again until he eventually became aware of another presence. This man was smaller, and he paced and muttered until he glanced over and their eyes met. The man talked, but even though he could hear his voice better, he couldn't make his way through the pain and confusion to understand what he said. He watched him, though, and when the man grinned and touched him lightly, he felt unaccountably stronger. He relaxed and went back to sleep.

There were two more he came to recognize – one the biggest of all, with gentle hands that soothed the pounding in his head with something cool, and the other the smallest, who brought things that smelled good – and he gradually distinguished a fifth, who didn't appear as often. He came to hate the sight of the last one because his touch didn't bring comfort, but rather more pain. He couldn't seem to do anything about it, though he was sure there should be some way to make him leave. Instead, when it all became unbearable, he simply sank back into the nebulous non-world he'd been existing in.

He realized at some point that he was being offered warm nourishment, and then, eventually, that he didn't like whatever it was. The smell made him dizzy and nauseous, and combined with the pain and confusion, it was suddenly all too much. One side of him seemed weighted, too heavy to move, and it enraged him. He gathered all his energy and struck out, knocking the offending liquid away. It seemed no time at all before what he now recognized as the oldest man appeared before him, soothing and comforting, his lips moving and his voice wrapping around him, easing his tense muscles and aching head. How could a voice do that? But everything would be set right. He didn't know what form that would take, but he could read something in the man's eyes that promised that soon, all would be well.

And then a wonderful aroma floated across the space between them, and he lost all interest in the man. He felt himself lifted, and soon a delicious liquid was being poured down his throat. He looked at the man who held the vessel and, for the first time, a sound – a word – floated clearly through his mind. _Pa_.

* * *


	5. Whispers in Silence, Part 5

_**Whispers in Silence – 5  
**by BeckyS**  
**revised 3 Oct 04_

Paul Martin, when consulted, was noncommittal. He'd telegraphed an acquaintance in New York City in the hopes of locating a doctor somewhere who knew more about this type of injury, but so far had received no leads, and he wouldn't even speculate until he learned more. He'd convinced the Cartwrights, however, to cease their round-the-clock watch on Adam, saying it wasn't necessary any more, and was simply wearing them all down.

Then, one morning about two and a half weeks after the accident, Hoss woke up in the still, quiet hours of the early morning and realized he was cold. Mountain weather was chancy at the best of times, so he wasn't particularly surprised at the overnight change, even this late in spring. He was about to snuggle down under his covers again when a second thought brought him wide awake. Had they left Adam's window open last night? Yesterday had been a scorcher, so he knew it had been open at least for a while. And Adam couldn't get up and close it, or even get another blanket.

He was out of bed in a heartbeat, and his fears were proved well-founded the moment he opened his brother's door. The room was like ice. He left the door wide open to let some heat in from the hall and rushed to his brother. Adam was curled on his right side, as they'd left him last night, but his blankets had slid halfway to his waist and he was shaking uncontrollably. His left hand clutched at the blankets, but couldn't hang onto them long enough to drag them higher. Pure misery shone from his dark eyes.

"Pa, Joe!" Hoss cried as he pulled the few blankets back up over Adam's shoulders. He slammed the window shut and searched the room quickly for a comforter or quilt. "Joe, get in here!" he called again, knowing that since Joe was nearer, he had a better chance of hearing him.

His younger brother appeared in the doorway, bleary eyed and shirtless. He shivered. "It's freezin' in here," he commented, then came abruptly awake. "Is he okay?"

"He's colder'n a possum dunked in the lake in a January blizzard. Is your room any warmer?"

Joe shook his head. "Not by much. Pa's might be, though."

Hoss had tucked another blanket around Adam. "Go find out. I'm not gonna go movin' him around if it ain't gonna help."

Joe disappeared, and Hoss murmured, "Why didn't you call out, pardner? I woulda helped you."

Adam didn't answer, just squeezed his eyes shut as he continued to shiver.

It was Ben who barreled through the door next, tying his robe. "Let's get him into my room. Joe's building up the fire. Careful, though."

"I got him, Pa. You go get the bed ready."

Ben untucked the blankets from the end of Adam's mattress then headed back out the door, and Hoss lifted his brother, covers and all. "You gotta let us know what's goin' on," he said as he maneuvered out the door and down the hall. Adam was still shaking, but he also tensed slightly, and a grimace twisted his mouth. "Am I hurtin' you? All you gotta do is tell me where, an' I'll do whatever it takes to fix it, but you gotta let me know what to do."

He'd reached his father's room, happy to see Joe holding the covers ready, though not pulled back yet, since they would rapidly lose whatever heat they'd held from Ben's body. As soon as Hoss approached, he lifted them slightly. Hoss smoothly lowered Adam to the bed and pulled Ben's covers over the blankets he'd dragged in with him.

"Hoss," Ben commanded, "get him something hot to drink from the kitchen. Even hot water from the stove's reservoir would help. Joseph, climb under there with him. There's nothing like another body to help get you warmed up."

Hoss headed out the door, and Joe gratefully slid under the covers. He didn't know how much use he'd be – he was pretty cold himself by now – but figured he'd warm up faster than his brother.

"Pa, should we send for the doc?" he asked as he scooted closer to Adam and put his arms around him. "Could gettin' cold like this hurt him?"

Ben sat on the edge of the bed and stroked a few dark locks from his eldest's forehead. "I don't know, son. Let's see how long it takes to get him warmed up. Paul is due out today, anyway, so if he seems to be all right, we'll just wait till he gets here."

"He's still shaking." Joe burrowed under the blankets from Adam's room, trying to get right next to him. "He's real cold."

Ben held his hand to Adam's cheek. "He's losing a lot of heat from his head." He looked around, found a small, soft lap robe, and snugged it over his son's hair. "Don't worry, son," he said softly, "we'll get you all fixed up."

There was no answer, though he could have sworn he could read grateful relief in Adam's expression.

Hoss entered with a coffeepot in one hand and a cup in the other. At his father's bemused expression, he explained, "Hop Sing's makin' some tea, but this was already hot."

Ben took the cup and filled it while Joe got behind his brother and lifted him up, blankets and all.

"Looks like one o' them sheiks from Araby," Hoss commented, his face screwed up into a haughty impression of what he thought a royal sheik would look like.

Joe laughed at his expression, but it was the brief snort of air from Adam that stopped them all in their tracks.

"Son?" Ben asked, his voice a strained whisper.

Again, no answer.

Ben sighed and held the cup for him to drink. He accepted the liquid with lowered eyelids and a sigh.

"Are you getting warmer?" Ben asked him. No answer except for a brief glance which then refocused on the cup.

"D'you want more?" Hoss asked.

Adam merely closed his eyes tightly.

"I dunno if that's a yes or a no," Hoss sighed.

"I think that was a yes," Joe said cautiously. He raised himself up on one elbow and spoke thoughtfully. "Pa, every time you ask him a question, he gets all tensed up. I can feel it, close like this."

Ben frowned in concentration. "So you think he's understanding what we're saying."

"Somethin's goin' on," said Hoss. "He just won't tell us what."

"Won't," said Joe slowly, "or . . . can't?"

Adam's eyes flew open, and the yearning in them as he gazed at his youngest brother was heartbreaking.

"Son?" Ben moved closer with the cup of coffee. "Do you want more?"

Adam shifted his gaze to his father.

His soul aching, Ben moved the cup forward. "If you want more, nod your head 'yes'," and he demonstrated. "If you've had enough—" and he pulled the cup back "—shake your head 'no'." And he turned his from side to side.

Hoss and Joe held their breath as Ben repeated the motions. Cup forward, "Nod;" cup back, "Shake."

His eyes never leaving Ben's, ever so slowly, ever so slightly, Adam's head dipped, just once. Hoss and Joe broke out into huge grins, but it was the warm love on his father's face that Adam responded to, and just before he took a sip, a faint dimple of a smile appeared.

* * *


	6. Whispers in Silence, Part 6 rev 10 Oct

_**Whispers in Silence -- 6  
**by BeckyS  
10 Oct 2004_

Doc Martin sighed and placed his coffee cup back in its saucer. He leaned onto his elbows as if only the dining room table was holding him up, and rubbed at his eyes. "Ben, I don't know what to tell you. It's good that he's responding to you, even if you had to explain to him what to do, but I can't say why he isn't speaking. It obviously has something to do with the head injury, but whether this is temporary or permanent is beyond me."

"He is getting better, though."

"Yes, he's better than he was, and that's heartening. Just how much improvement we can expect is also beyond me, as is how we're going to measure it. As I've told you before, we just don't know enough about how the brain works."

"Were you able to find a specialist?"

"There is a man, a Frenchman, but I don't know where he is. He's been on a lecture tour in Europe, and I'm still trying to catch up with him. From what I understand, if he knew of Adam's condition, he'd do whatever he could to help. I'd just need to send him the details."

"Whatever it takes, Paul. If you need money to track him down, to send him telegrams, no matter how long they are—"

Paul smiled. "I know. I just have to find him." Uncharacteristically, he started to play with his cup, turning it one direction, then the other. "Ben, there's one other thing."

Ben felt a quiver of trepidation. "What's that, Paul?"

"You need to be prepared for Adam's moods."

Ben sat back into his chair. "What do you mean?"

The doctor sighed. "Adam has always been somewhat temperamental. He says it's logic, but you and I know that a lot of the time when he gets mad, it's really because he's frustrated. A good part of the rest of the world doesn't think the way he does, just plain isn't as smart and doesn't catch on as quickly. He's always been very good about making accommodations, but I'm afraid that's not likely to be true any more."

Ben took a sip of coffee, hiding a grin behind his cup. "Paul, right now I'd welcome his worst tantrum."

Paul laughed humorlessly. "Well, I'm glad to hear you say that, because it's just exactly what you're likely to get. Head injuries are complicated, and people who've been as ill as Adam lose a lot of the ability to control their emotions. Add to that the problems with communicating, and as he gets better, becomes more aware, he's going to get extremely frustrated. Remember Little Joe when he was three? He was always wanting to follow his brothers around, do the things they did, but he wasn't strong enough or big enough or didn't have the skills he would need. He didn't know many words, couldn't express what he wanted or how he felt, so, like any three year old, he let you know about it."

Ben let his memories range back over the years. Yes, the battles with his youngest had been legendary, worse than anything he'd seen with his other two boys. "But Adam's not a child—"

"No, he's not," Paul interrupted. "You said he's already struck out once, at that bowl of soup. If he's lost the ability to speak, and if he comes back with his memories basically intact – as we all hope – he's soon going to figure out just exactly what he can and cannot do."

"Adam . . . without his words . . ." Ben set the cup down, horrified. "He's always talked as a way to defuse his anger, his frustrations."

"If this were Hoss, someone with a calmer, more accepting personality . . ." Paul shook his head. "This is going to be hell for him."

Paul could see by the expressions flitting across his face what Ben's thoughts were as he worked it through. He wasn't surprised, though, to see his friend, finally, stiffen his backbone and look him straight in the eye. "As long as he comes back, Paul. We'll deal with his temper if it comes to that, just as long as he comes back to us."

* * *

Paul's words proved prophetic. Adam's temper, always before kept under rigid control, was now given free rein, and Ben soon began to wonder if they would all survive. Anything that upset his son would trigger a near knock-down, drag-out fight. Only his overall debility and the pain of his not-yet-healed injuries allowed them to control him. He still had a good left hook, though, as the shiner Joe now sported proved.

"I think we need to hire some help," Joe said from behind the steak that was draped over his eye. He was sprawled on the settee, feet on the coffee table, head tilted back.

Hoss dropped into the red leather chair by the fire, one arm cradling his ribs. "A week ago I woulda said no, but now . . ." He shook his head. "Pa ain't gonna go for it, though."

"Go for what?" their father asked as he descended the stairs, rubbing one arm.

"He go to sleep?" came the somewhat muffled voice of his youngest.

"Finally. I think he wore himself out. Go for what?" he repeated.

"Help," Hoss said. "We gotta get some help, Pa."

Ben drew himself up and narrowed his eyes. "We're doing just fine, all by ourselves."

Joe lifted a corner of the steak, and Ben winced at the red and purple bruising. "Yeah, Pa, that's why my eye's twice its size, Hoss is trying to figure out if his ribs are cracked, and you're hanging on to your arm like you're afraid it's gonna fall off."

"The one thing we _don't_ need right now, young man, is your sarcasm."

Joe's gaze held steady – with his one good eye, anyway. Then, without a word, he settled the steak more comfortably and let his head drop back onto the settee.

Ben sighed. "Let me take a look at that." He peeled the now-warm meat off Joe's face and grimaced. "Hop Sing!" he called.

Their cook arrived immediately, carrying another steak on a platter. "This one cool, Hop Sing take that one back to kitchen."

Hoss looked up hopefully. "Any chance of one of 'em landing in a pan anytime soon?"

Hop Sing made a sound suspiciously like a snort and waved the platter in the air. "Clean. Garden. Take care of chickens. Go Virginia City for special herbs. Make special food for Mr. Adam. Cook good meals no one eat. Now Mr. Hoss want special meals. No time."

Ben finally grabbed the platter and swapped the two steaks. "I know you're busy, Hop Sing, but we all appreciate the extra work you're putting in, especially for Adam."

"Not know this. How Hop Sing know this?" He scowled at Hoss, who shrank back into his chair. "This one alla time want food." He turned on Joe, who hid under the new piece of meat. "This one never eat." He poked an angry finger at Ben's chest. "This one eat, but never taste." He then turned to the stairway. "That one . . ." but he finally ran down. He turned pleading eyes on his boss. "Nothing help."

Ben relaxed as he realized that Hop Sing was as upset and frustrated as the rest of them. "No, everything you do helps him. It's slow, but he really is getting better." He sank down into Adam's favorite chair and looked at his family. He was trying to think of something to say to them, some way to encourage them, when he heard a crash from above.

He took the stairs three at a time, followed by Hoss and Joe, and he burst into Adam's room to find his son lying on the floor, curled around his stomach as he convulsed in dry heaving. Ben knelt next to him and gathered him into his arms; tucked his head against his chest as if he were a small boy again. "There," he murmured, rocking slightly. "It'll be all right, son; it'll be all right."

"What the heck happened?" Joe asked, wrinkling his nose at the smell.

Hoss pulled at the covers that Adam had dragged to the floor. "Lemme help you get him up in bed, Pa. Get on over here, Joe, and give me a hand."

Hop Sing scurried in with rags and a bowl of water. "You move Mistah Adam; Hop Sing clean."

Ben ignored them all, concentrating only on his eldest whose body shook as if he'd never get warm. He could feel the keening breaths, though no sound came from Adam's throat.

A new voice, whispered but furious, entered the fray. "What in God's name is going on here?" said Paul Martin. Quiet it may have been, but it cut through the noise into instant silence. "You and you," he pointed to Hoss and Joe, "out of here now! Hop Sing, set that on the washstand – you can clean up later. Ben, as soon as we get Adam back in bed, you go keep those two boys quiet. Don't any of you have a lick of sense?"

The room cleared, but Ben didn't move. Adam had a grip on his arm that telegraphed his agony more clearly than any words. Ben looked up at the doctor, who was still furious. As calmly as he could he said, "I'm not going to let go of him until he's ready."

Paul knelt beside them, his voice soft, but the anger gone as suddenly as it had come. "Let's see if we can get him up on the bed. Looks like he banged his leg up good and proper."

Ben looked over at the bandaging around Adam's thigh, now tinged with red at the edges. He sighed and nodded. He pulled Adam's shoulders back just a bit, trying to see his face. "Son?" he asked. Adam just burrowed closer. Ben gently took his face in his hand and turned it up. His heart turned over at the distress reflected on his son's face. He was still breathing heavily, and he closed his eyes.

"He's feeling pretty sick about now," murmured Paul. "Move him easy, or we'll have another mess to clean up."

"I don't think there's anything left," Ben commented with a wry twist to his mouth. He rose slowly, and with Paul's help, managed to lever Adam back into bed.

Paul took Ben by the shoulder. "Now, you go downstairs, too, and keep everyone quiet."

"I'm not leaving Adam."

"Ben, keep your voice down. I'll take care of him, but you can help more by making sure that no one starts another ruckus. Adam needs quiet, and I do mean quiet."

Ben stood still in the silence, aware suddenly of all the noises of the ranch that he had heard for so long that they now melded into the background. Men down at the corral cheering on a bronc rider, pots banging in the kitchen, someone chopping wood – and with each ring of the ax, Adam flinched.

He raised his eyes to the doctor's, saw the compassion. He nodded. "I'll be back when I've taken care of it."

"Let me take care of that leg and then I'll be down to talk with you. You can decide how to handle things after we talk."

Ben nodded and walked as quietly as he could to the door. Hand on the doorknob, he turned back for a moment as if to say something more, but then left and silently closed the door behind him.

Paul turned his attention back to his patient. "Adam?" he asked very softly. He felt for fever, relieved not to find any heat, but the cold, clammy white skin told its own story. "Open your eyes for a minute, Adam." He waited patiently, repeating quietly, "Open your eyes."

* * *


	7. Whispers in Silence, Part 7 rev 10 Oct

_**Whispers in Silence -- 7  
**by BeckyS  
10 Oct 2004_

When Paul descended the stairs a half-hour later, he found only Ben in the great room, pouring two cups of coffee from a silver service. He took one from his friend and settled himself on the settee. He looked around approvingly. "Where are the boys?"

Ben jerked his head toward the door. "Sent them off to town for supplies; told them to fill up the wagon with wood from up around Silver Creek." He took his cup and sat in the red leather chair. "No one will be doing any wood chopping around here until you say otherwise. I moved most of the hands out to the east pasture for branding. Hoss is going to hire one of Hop Sing's cousins to cook for them – they can stay overnight out there."

"Good. Now there are some things you need to know. For the next week or so, it will help if you can keep the house as quiet as possible, keep his room dark during the day, and no more than one person at a time in his room with him. I'm assuming from the condition Joe's face was in that you had some kind of run-in with him."

"Run-in, indeed. As bad as he feels, he still nearly took all of us down. Finally just wore himself out."

Paul nodded. "That explains the sickness, then."

Ben raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Too much excitement. Too much going on. He can't take it all in, Ben; he hurts too much. It's flat overwhelming. He probably tried to get all of you to leave him alone, in the only way he could—"

"Attacking us?" Ben interrupted.

Paul nodded. "Since he can't tell you, how else would he get your attention?"

Ben sank down into his chair. "And we just yelled at him and held him down, until finally he collapsed."

Paul refilled his cup. "You see why I want the whole place calmed down. He didn't really hurt himself this time, but as he gets stronger, he well could."

"We've been going along all right so far, Paul; why now?"

"He probably wasn't awake enough before to notice."

Ben rubbed at his forehead. "So you're saying he's making progress?"

Paul grinned. "I know it doesn't seem like it, and this is something of a setback. I've covered his eyes with a bandage—"

Ben jerked his head up, alarmed.

"Just to give them a rest. Light hurts, especially bright ones like the lamp, or even the reflection off your metal vest buttons. You might want to check over his room, see if anything reflects sunlight onto the bed. You know how the sun hurts your eyes when you have a hangover -- it's worse for him; a pain like a knife when it hits his eyes. Hopefully he'll sleep the rest of the day, though. It'd be the best thing for him."

A new thought occurred to Ben. "He got up. He was trying to get to the basin." Dawning hope lit his eyes.

"Or at least out of bed. But I think you're right, Ben – he's coming back. Give him every chance to sort things through for the next week or so. Keep things simple and give him lots of time to figure out what's going on. Don't worry about leaving him alone for longer stretches – remember how you've felt on the worst day of influenza that you've ever had and multiply it a couple of times. He simply doesn't have the strength to deal with a lot right now, so feed it to him in small bits."

Ben smiled, a joyous expression that lit his face, and he grabbed Paul's hand. "He's going to make it, Paul. He's going to make it."

Paul Martin felt his heart lift, too.

* * *

And so Adam Cartwright began to heal. No longer assailed by voices, smells, faces, sounds and lights, he luxuriated in the silence and peace. He spent his small reservoir of energy trying to figure out the voices that spoke to him, now that they came simply, slowly, one person at a time. He would recognize a word here and there, but nothing really hung together enough to make sense. It was like being on one of those whirly-gig wheels he'd ridden somewhere – people shouting, but you could only hear what they were saying when you passed by them. If you tried too hard to stick to one when the others were still beating at you, you ended up dizzy and sick.

More faces had words – names – attached to them now. 'Pa' he'd recognized for a while, but he'd added 'Hoss' and 'Joe' and 'Hopsing.' He particularly liked having Joe around, liked his voice. For some reason, he could understand more of what he said than any of the others. The fifth man he'd finally recognized as a doctor, and when he'd chased everyone out that one day, Adam had forgiven him for all the hurts he'd inflicted. Life had improved since then, and although he knew he was missing large chunks of something, he was content now that the sick whirling of his head had eased.

"Grass . . . good, cattle . . . branding . . ." were words that came from the one who sat with him now, the big one, Hoss. He closed his eyes.

Grass. Tall and green, swishing against his boots as he waded through it.

Cattle. Warm smell, part nice, part foul, but part of life.

Branding. Bawling little ones, yelling for their mamas.

"Leave you to your rest . . ."

His brows furrowed. Leave? Go away? No. He wanted . . . he wanted the big man to stay. A warm hand rested on his shoulder, a palm on his forehead. It eased his headache to have it there, and he turned his head into it. The hand began to slip from his shoulder, and he thought that meant the man – Hoss – was going. He grabbed at it, caught hold, tugged just a little. Big as Hoss was, his hand came back easily.

He opened his eyes again.

"Want me . . . stay?" Hoss said.

What was it Pa had showed him? He nodded, just once.

Hoss broke out into a big smile. ". . . sure . . . big brother . . ."

He closed his eyes again as Hoss continued his story, but this time, there was a smile on his face, too.

* * *

"An' every time I stood up, thinkin' he'd gone to sleep, he grabbed hold o' my arm again." Hoss dug into his dinner. "Didn't think I'd ever get down here, but Hop Sing musta knowed somehow, 'cause he came up with a bowl o' that good soup there, an' Adam finally let go."

"He was really listening?" Joe asked, fork forgotten in the air where it held a pile of mashed potatoes.

Hoss sat back in his chair. "I asked him straight out if he wanted me to stay, and he nodded his head, just like that."

"Paul was right," Ben mused. "I wonder if there's some way we can get him to tell us what he wants?"

"Well," Hoss dug back into his dinner, "We can ask him yes and no questions, for a start. Won't do for everything, but if he knows he's getting through to us, it should help."

"Ask him what?" Joe said.

"First thing I imagine he'd like to tell us is if he's hurtin' someplace we can fix up."

"You can do that," Joe said. "You're good at telling what's hurting on a critter."

"'Critter' indeed," scowled Ben.

"Well, it's true," said Joe, unrepentant. "Don't matter much if it's a man or animal, you know Hoss can read 'em like it's printed in a book."

Ben sighed and looked at his middle son. "Well? What do you think?"

"Well, sure, Pa. Y'know I'd do anything to help Adam. Gonna take some time, though. He's pretty wore out tonight, and this ain't the kind o' thing you can rush through." He turned to his little brother. "Joe, you're gonna have to go check on the mine, then, instead of me. I was supposed to go up there tomorrow and talk with Cal about how things are going; y'know, how much they got dug out again and such. Gotta find out if he can tell us when they can start diggin' again."

Joe grimaced. "Okay. I hope I don't have to go in. That place gives me the willies – it did even before Adam got caught."

Ben put a reassuring hand on Joe's arm. "I'm sure you can find out most of what we need to know by just talking with Cal; he's a good foreman. And he won't let you go inside if it isn't safe."

Joe nodded. "Yeah, and the sooner we can start getting silver out of it, the sooner we can buy that stallion we need, get more of that feed Hoss says is helping the broodmares, and some of those windmills Adam talked you into." He stood and rolled his shoulders to loosen the tension from them. "Well, guess I'd better get some sleep then. Gotta get up early if I'm gonna make it out to the mine and then into town."

"Into town?" Ben asked.

"Well, I gotta ask Susie if she can go to the church picnic with me." Joe rose. "Don't worry, Pa, I'll be home for dinner – unless her ma invites me to stay. Mmm, mmm. She does make good pie, her ma does."

"All right, son, just get home before dark."

"G'night, Pa; g'night, Hoss." He headed up the stairs, a long-missing spring to his step.

"He's right – she makes a darn good pie," Hoss said.

Ben laughed. "Well, if Joseph has eased up on his worry enough to be thinking about someone's pie, then I think we might be getting back to normal here."

"Yep, I do believe we might be, Pa."

* * *

Eager to see if Hoss had been right, Joe stopped in Adam's room on the way to his own. He walked softly over to the bed and sat carefully on the edge. "Adam?" He waited patiently and was rewarded by a deep breath, then Adam opened his eyes. It seemed to take him a moment to focus, but then a small smile appeared and he reached out with his good hand. Joe took it, gripped it firmly but gently in his own. "You're gonna be all right, big brother."

Adam narrowed his gaze.

"It's gonna take a while longer." He paused, then spaced his next words carefully, "but you'll be all right."

Adam squeezed his hand, a weak imitation of the firm grip he used to give, but Joe felt it and knew it for what it was. His brother recognized him, and he not only understood what Joe had said, he believed him.

* * *


	8. Whispers in Silence, Part 8 rev 10 Oct

_**Whispers in Silence -- 8  
**by BeckyS  
10 Oct 2004_

Joe Cartwright dropped his dusty gloves on the credenza by the front door, plopped his hat on its peg on the hat rack, and bent wearily to untie his holster thong from his thigh. The flames jumping in the big hearth had never looked so good. He was cold, stiff and hungry. The fire would take care of the first two; he hoped there was some dinner left to take care of the third.

"That you, Joe?" came a voice from the dining room.

"Yeah, Hoss," he said. He unbuckled his holster, rolled it into a ball, and set it on top of the credenza next to his gloves. He ran a hand through his sweat-matted curls and trudged over to the table. Hoss kicked his chair out for him, and he sank gratefully into it, planted his elbows on the tabletop and dropped his head into his hands.

"It's late," Hoss commented, "and you look about all in." He poured some coffee into a cup and pushed it across the table to him.

Joe lifted his head and surveyed his brother, noting the clean clothes and neat hair of a man who hadn't stepped foot outside all day. "Some of the men at the mine said they'd only take orders from Pa or Adam. They figured I didn't have what it took to boss a job like that." He rubbed his eyes. "I thought that bull-of-the-woods crap only applied to lumberjacks."

Hoss chuckled. "So you showed 'em what you know, an' I'll bet they backed down."

Joe picked up his coffee and took a long, luxurious swallow. "Yep. Didn't dare relax 'til Cochise had me around the other side of the mountain. Got to Willow Spring Creek and about laid down and died in it." He rolled one shoulder, then the other, easing the stiffness. "I don't know how they do it all day every day. Swinging a pick, shoveling, I was all right with that, but the single-jacking—" He shook his head at the memory. "Turning the chisel and hitting it with that darn four-pounder, turning and hitting, turning and hitting. Didn't feel all that heavy the first time I picked 'em up, but after the first hundred hits or so, it felt more like four hundred pounds. And that ringing is still bouncing between my ears."

"Just like you riding a horse, they can do it because they always do it."

"Yeah." He sat back in the chair and looked around the table at the remains of dinner. "Leave anything for the rest of us?"

"Pa's had his. You jest stay put – let's get your cup refilled – and I'll get a dandy meal put together for you in two shakes." Hoss went into the kitchen and Joe heard various banging and clanging noises as he savored the hot, bitter brew.

He knew he should wash up before eating, but he was just too darn tired. There was so much work to do up at the mine. He planned to eat, check in on Adam, and go straight to bed. He didn't think he could give his father a coherent report until he'd had some sleep. While he admired the miners' loyalty to his father and brother, he wished they'd get through their heads that they worked for _all_ the Cartwrights.

He sighed. He'd run into this problem before and doubted today would be the last time. As long as they had the work divvied up the way they did – Hoss managing the cattle, Joe primarily with the horses, and Adam taking care of the timber and mining – they'd all run into it. They'd discussed changing the setup and they all helped each other, but this had still seemed the most efficient way to run the ranch. And they needed all the efficiency they could get with an operation this big.

Hoss appeared in the entry to the kitchen and lobbed a cloth at him. Joe grabbed it automatically to discover it was a hot, moist towel.

"Wash up," Hoss advised, then disappeared again.

Joe let out a soft moan of pleasure as he held it to his face. Memories of luxurious barbershop shaves relaxed him faster than even one of his father's backrubs would have. He scrubbed at this face, then ran the cloth around the back of his neck, wiped off his hands, and dropped it at the end of the table just as Hoss came in with a full plate in one hand and a basket of rolls in the other.

"Doin' kitchen duty tonight, brother?" Joe asked as he snagged a roll. He didn't bother to put jam or butter on it, just bit off half of the soft, yeasty bread.

"Pa an' Hop Sing are upstairs gettin' Adam set for the night. I figgered I'd just be in the way, and 'sides, Hop Sing made a couple of fresh-apple pies this afternoon. I was jest about to get myself a slice when I heard you ride up. One of the hands get your horse for you?"

Joe nodded. They both knew that their father preferred they take care of their own horses, a principle Joe agreed with, particularly when it came to his beloved Cochise, but the hands seemed to see it as a way to help out. Joe let them – it was little enough they could do for the family and, by extension, for Adam.

Hoss went back into the kitchen and came back with two plates, each containing at least a quarter of a pie. It looked like a lot for a lean man like Joe Cartwright, but as his family could swear, when the youngest Cartwright had had a day like this one, his appetite rivaled even Hoss's.

Joe swallowed his mouthful of roast beef and started buttering his next roll. "How'd it go today with Adam? Did you get anything out of him?"

Hoss cut off a good-sized bite of pie. "Not much. He seemed to be pretty tired, wanted to sleep a lot." He chewed thoughtfully. "S'pose it's only natural. I remember one time I banged my head good. It was a couple days before I stopped seein' two-three of everything. 'Bout wore me out, trying to figure out which was real. I remember Adam pourin' me a drink – sunlight hit the water when it came out of the pitcher and them lights dancin' around on it near had me headin' for the basin. Felt worse than havin' the influenza."

Joe set his dinner plate aside and dug into the pie. "So tell me."

"Well, this mornin' I told him I was gonna ask him about what hurt and if the cold packs helped. I held one on top of his hand, the one he busted up, and told him to nod at me if it felt better. Took him a minute to figure out what I was sayin', I guess, but then he nodded. I held it there for a little bit, an' then moved it to his forehead. Joe, he let out this big sigh and then smiled. Guess Doc was right about his head achin' fit to bust."

Joe felt his spirits rise at what seemed to be proof of what was wrong with their brother. "Hard to think when your head hurts like that."

"Yep. After he'd slept himself out for a while, Hop Sing an' me tried something else on him. Gave him a choice of soup. I propped him up on a bunch o' pillows so's he could see, an' Hop Sing held two bowls in front of him. One had that good beef an' vegetable soup, an' the other had some o' that thick white clam chowder."

"Where the heck did he get clams from?"

"Bribed Sam down at the general store, for all I know. I was as surprised as Adam. You shoulda seen his eyebrows go up when he got a look at it an' had a good whiff. I got it about the same time, and my stomach started in to rumble. Adam started wheezing a bit, and we got all worried till Hop Sing figured out he was laughin'. Called him a foolish boy in that way he has, an' Adam just smiled at him." He finished off his last bite of pie and sat back with satisfaction. "Then I told him if he wanted the beef soup, he should hold up one finger. If he wanted the second bowl, the chowder, he should hold up two. He squinted at me in that way he does when he's thinkin' hard, then after a while he held up two fingers. He ate every bit o' that chowder, and when we asked if he wanted more, he held up two fingers again. Got him a second bowl, but seems his eyes were bigger than his stomach, 'cause half-way through he waved the bowl away and closed his eyes."

"It's like reminding him of things he knows brings 'em back," Joe mused.

"Yep." Hoss's eyes were shining and he had a grin that looked like it might split his face. "He's comin' back, Joe. Our brother, he's comin' back."

* * *


	9. Whispers in Silence, Part 9, new 10 Oct

_**Whispers in Silence -- 9  
**by BeckyS  
10 Oct 2004_

Ben looked up from sipping his first cup of coffee of the day at the sound of his youngest practically bouncing down the stairs. "You certainly look better this morning than when I checked on you last night, Joseph."

Joe colored slightly, then grinned as he joined his father at the breakfast table. "Guess I was pretty tired, Pa. Those miners'll work you near to death if you give them half a chance."

That hit a little close to home for Ben, but he did his best to set it aside. They couldn't go on cringing every time something reminded them of their near-loss. He spooned some strawberry jam onto his toast. "What did you find out?"

Joe was already halfway through his eggs. "Cal says he thinks we can eventually dig our way back through the drift to tunnel three, but he thought maybe we should work number two for a while first. Says the men are still spooked by three. He wants to give them some more time to settle down. Me, I'd like to get an expert up there to check it out before we open it up again. I'd trust what Adam had to say about it, but aside of him . . ." He thought for a moment. "How about Mr. Diedesheimer? Is he around?"

"I don't know, son. He's still the superintendent at the Ophir, but he was due to take a trip to San Francisco."

"Well, there's lots of mine inspectors in Virginia City," Joe said between sips of coffee.

Ben tried to identify the niggling resistance he felt. "I'm not sure I want someone from one of the other mines poking around in there."

Hoss came downstairs in time to hear his comment. "Why's that, Pa?" he asked as he took his place at the table.

"Good morning, son," he said, half-expecting something else to happen. It was a moment before he realized he was waiting to hear the footsteps of a third son. Shaking off the sinking feeling, he tried to get his mind back on the ranch's problems. "It's the financial end of things. Adam had some concerns about the mine that he wanted to check out, and since I don't know what they were, I'm wary of tipping our hand to anyone else. We know we can trust Philip, but I just don't know any of the other supervisors well enough to hand them information on how good the mine is. We have some deals in the works that depend on financing, and the prospects of our mine will affect how the banks view our ability to pay back the loans. If there's something wrong and we happen to choose someone who can't keep their mouth shut, it'll get back to the banks before we're ready with a back-up plan."

Joe wiped his mouth with his napkin and set it by his plate. "Adam would know who we could trust."

"Yeah, but could we get him to tell us?" Hoss asked.

"The question," Ben inserted stiffly, "is not only could we, but should we." He looked at his sons. "I don't want to push too hard. His progress is encouraging, but remember what Paul said."

"We could ask," Joe offered. "He might be able to tell us something."

Ben softened. Joe was thinking with his heart, with his hopes. He hated to stifle the boy. "Tell you what. Why don't you draw up a list of men you think might be trustworthy, and we'll see about running it past your brother. We'll know with the first name if we're asking too much."

* * *

Adam felt sick again. He was heartily tired of the sensation, but that didn't seem to matter to his stomach. It was the sun on the mirror that was doing it this time, he decided, risking a peek. The light shattered into multiple brilliant dots that stabbed into the back of his head. He let out a harsh breath and turned his head to the left. No, that side was sore. The pillows were soft, but not enough to keep that spot from throbbing. 

He tried turning his head to the right, but he couldn't escape the light. Rolling onto his side didn't help, either. The sun seemed determined to move with him.

He sank onto his back again. Where was everyone? It seemed like he always had more company than he could stand, but now, when he needed someone's help, no one was around. Where was his father? Why didn't he come? He called out – but realized he hadn't heard his voice. No sound? Why couldn't he hear himself?

The pain in his head forgotten, he concentrated on that one word. Deep breath. Form the word. Blow out. _Pa?_

Nothing.

His throat tightened and his stomach churned. What was happening? He broke out into a cold sweat and started to tremble. Pain lanced through his head and he wanted desperately to cry out in agony, but again, there was no sound. Had he gone deaf?

Desperate to hear something, anything, his gaze skittered around the room. Everything was either hazy, multiplied, or strewn with brilliant lights. The table. The table by his bed. It had things on it. He couldn't make out what they were, but right now, he didn't care. His left hand could reach them, and with one violent swipe, he cleared the surface. The shattering of glass told him his hearing was fine, and he realized he could also hear his own breathing – fast, heavy, panicked.

The door opened with a crash and his father stood on the threshold.

_Pa!_ he tried again, his heart bleeding into the one word, but there was nothing.

No sound. No words.

"Adam?" his father asked, worry creasing his brow.

_Pa—_ Adam choked on his tears. He'd thought he was simply too sick, that he hurt too much and didn't have the strength to respond to his family. He'd never thought that he _couldn't_.

His father crossed to his side in two strides. "Son, calm down."

He pulled Adam into his arms like he was a small boy, but Adam fought him. He had to tell him, had to let him know—

He felt arms surrounding him, trying to enclose him. He struck out, trying to get away, trying to get enough air.

"Adam, you must calm down. Breathe deep, son; deep and steady."

He tried, really he did, but each breath hurt and he wanted to scream out his pain, yet all he heard was the rasping of gulps of air.

Heavy hands held him in place. "Adam," said another voice, "you're gonna hurt yourself, Adam. You gotta settle down."

He pushed back a little and looked up into his father's eyes.

"What's wrong, son?"

He wanted desperately to tell him, but there were no words. He took a breath as if to speak, but nothing came out. He shook his head in frustration and fear. _Pa! Oh, Pa!_

What was he seeing in his father's eyes? Fear? Pity?

Understanding.

Confirmation.

His head pounded, his whole body ached, he was suddenly freezing cold, and then his stomach rebelled. He keened soundlessly in agony until finally he sank into darkness.

* * *


	10. Whispers in Silence, Part 10, new 10 Oct

_**Whispers in Silence -- 10  
**by BeckyS  
10 Oct 2004_

Tears running down his cheeks, Ben held his unconscious son in his arms as Hoss and Hop Sing cleaned up around them. He hadn't had to send anyone for the doctor; after one look at his brother, Joe had bolted from the room.

Adam knew. He should have told him, should have explained – but Adam had come to awareness more suddenly than any of them had imagined.

"You can set him back down," Hoss said at his shoulder.

Ben felt frozen.

"C'mon, Pa. Let me help you."

He looked up at his middle son as he clutched his eldest to his chest. "Hoss, he can't speak." His voice broke. "He tried, but he can't—he can't—"

Hoss pulled Adam from his father's arms and settled him back on the pillows. He took a washcloth from the shaving stand, dipped it into the water and gently washed his brother's face. "I know, Pa. I guess I've known for a while. I just hoped I was wrong."

"Paul said it might happen, but I didn't really believe him." What kind of future would his son have, reduced to writing notes every time he wanted to say anything? How could he negotiate contracts, boss the timber and the mines—Ben knew those weren't important in and of themselves, but they were things Adam was good at, that he loved doing.

And people were so cruel; oh, not the ones who already knew him, though their pity would be bad enough, but there would be those who would try to bully him, who'd badger him about no longer being the "smart-mouthed" Cartwright. He could see it coming.

"Pa." Hoss was pushing him away from Adam's bed. "Pa, c'mon out here a minute."

Ben looked up to discover he was in the hallway. He tried to jerk away, to get back to his son. "Hoss, let me—"

"Not yet, Pa. You gotta listen to me first."

He pulled again, determined to get back to Adam.

"Pa! Listen to me, dadburnit!"

Startled, Ben stopped and looked up at Hoss.

"Pa, he's alive."

"Of course he is."

"Stop an' think a minute, Pa. It was only two weeks ago that we was prayin' that he'd live. Remember, we was sayin' that we'd take him anyway we could, long as he'd live. An' he did. Then we wanted him to come back to us the Adam we know. Looks like we mighta got that, too."

Ben sank against the wall. "Are you saying I'm asking too much? That I should be grateful he's come this far? That I should forget what this means for him?"

Hoss scrubbed at his face, and Ben suddenly realized how tired he looked.

"Maybe I am. Whatever comes out of all this, however much he can get well, I'm gonna be grateful for the rest of my life that we didn't lose him."

"You're right," he said hoarsely. He put a hand on Hoss's shoulder and squeezed gently. "You're right; I need to remember how much we've gained, how far he's come." Determination gripped hold, though. "But I won't give up on him, Hoss. I won't assume he'll never get better."

"I ain't askin' that, Pa. Maybe Doc'll say this is just temporary, and I sure hope he does, but if it ain't, I'm still gonna be grateful I've got my brother back. We'll work a way around this. Adam's too smart and too stubborn not to figure something out."

A small bubble of a laugh rose from somewhere deep inside, and he felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. "You're right, son, he is. And he'll have three other Cartwrights in his corner, fighting right along with him."

* * *

"It's called _aphémie_, if you want the French. Americans are calling it aphemia," Paul Martin said.

He and Ben were sitting in the living room, Ben in his favorite red chair, Paul on the end of the settee nearest to him. Hop Sing brought in the silver service, complete with sugar bowl and cream so the doctor could fix his coffee the way he liked it. A plate of small sandwiches was also on the tray, just the right size for nibbling. Paul picked one up, knowing the power of suggestion. As he bit into it, Ben reached over and took one as well. Satisfied, for he'd been worried about more Cartwrights than just his patient, he swallowed and continued.

"It was named by that doctor in France I was telling you about, Paul Broca. He's been studying the effects of injury to different parts of the brain. A man with a severe injury to the back of his head lost his vision. One who was hit in the same spot as Adam but on the right side of the head couldn't stop talking. Another lost the ability to move his left leg."

"And Adam's injury?"

"Right over what Broca believes is the location for speaking." He stared moodily down into his coffee and swirled it around a couple of times. "I'd say he's right."

Ben poured himself a cup of coffee. "These men . . . did they recover?"

"The leg never came back. The talking slowed down some, and the vision cleared completely. No one knows why."

Ben sipped at his coffee, and Paul could almost see him thinking, considering all the possibilities. "What about the future?"

Paul shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. How much he gets back depends on the degree of the damage. My reading indicates that the bleeding from his ear was actually a good thing, though I know it was alarming how long it went on. Kept the pressure inside his head down so it didn't kill him. The Egyptians used to drill holes in the head. With Adam, because of the way his skull fractured when it was hit, the bone was actually able to move outward a bit with the swelling. That, along with the bleeding, may have been enough to keep the brain from damaging itself any more than it already was."

Ben set his cup on the table and leaned back in the chair. "How bad is it?"

"Aside of the speech and all of the problems he'll have because of it, he's doing very well. He's been sitting up in bed, and from what you've said he understands most of what you're saying to him, at least until he gets tired. He's also trying to get across to you what he wants. Those are all to the good. As soon as his vision settles down, you can start moving him to a chair that has a back and arms, like a wingback. He's going to be very weak and he'll have sudden dizzy spells, so make sure someone is with him."

Ben looked up at the ceiling as if he could see through the wood beams to his son's room. His words were a strained whisper. "I couldn't help him, Paul. I could see in his eyes that he was crying out to me to help him, but I couldn't."

"No, Ben," Paul said gently. "You can't fix it. There's no magic wand, no miracle. There's only time and hard work on his part. I don't know what he'll be able to do; none of us do. But you know better than anyone what he's made of. He'll fight. He'll find a life." He reached for another sandwich and realized they were gone. He'd been hungrier than he realized. Well, it had been a long morning after a long night out at the Watsons' with a croupy child. He stood, and the room suddenly rose up in front of him.

Ben stood quickly and took his arm. "Paul," he scolded gently, "for all you badger us about taking care of ourselves, you don't seem to be doing a very good job on yourself. You sit right back down."

He sank gratefully down and dropped his head into his hand.

"Hop Sing!" Ben bellowed.

The cook scurried into the room, wiping his hands on his apron.

"Hop Sing, the doctor needs some good food and a rest. I'm going to take him to the guest room upstairs, if you'll get something together for him to eat."

Paul was about to protest when he realized Hop Sing was scrutinizing him carefully. "Honorable doctor must eat, must sleep. Must be rested to take care of Cartwrights. Hop Sing always sure to get plenty food and sleep; Cartwrights too much trouble if not rested."

Paul burst out laughing at the flabbergasted expression on Ben's face. "All right, I give in. I'd like to see Adam when he wakes up, so I may as well take a nap while I'm waiting."

Ben led the way up the stairs, still bemused. He finally just shook his head. He opened the door to a pleasant room on the shaded side of the house, and Paul sighed in pleasure. Bed had rarely looked so inviting. He slid out of his jacket to discover Hop Sing ready to take it from him. A tray already sat on the small table by the window with a red and white china bowl of rich, hot soup, a thick slice of bread slathered in butter, and a pot of exotic-smelling tea.

He glanced at Ben, who simply shrugged his shoulders and said, "I don't know how he does it. I'm just glad he does."

"I can see I'll be fine. Go on back to Adam, Ben. Call me when he begins to wake up, but go ahead and tell him what's happened, if you think he's aware enough. I think he'll take it better from you. I can fill in what details we know."

Ben nodded and left, and when Hop Sing was sure he was comfortable, he left as well. Paul savored the peaceful quiet as he ate the small meal. It was rare enough that he had a few minutes to himself.

As he settled himself on the bed, he mentally reviewed the articles he'd found on brain injuries. Godwin in San Francisco had been particularly helpful, sending along by stage some journals he'd recently received from New York. Paul thumped the mattress with his fist. _There's so much we don't know!_ As a doctor and a scientist, he was fascinated by Adam Cartwright's condition. He'd been taking copious notes and would write a paper, hoping to contribute to medical knowledge. As a man, though, he was horrified at the thought of his friend trapped in his mind for the rest of his life. For one thing he hadn't mentioned to Ben was that speech wasn't the only thing reported to be affected by injuries to that particular part of the brain. _What if Adam can't read or write, either?_

* * *


	11. Whispers, Part 11 new 15 Nov

_**Whispers in Silence -- 11   
**by BeckyS   
15 Nov 2004_

The late afternoon sun was gilding the bedcovers before Adam stirred. Aroused from his preoccupation, Ben lifted his son's hand and held it gently while he watched Adam wake. A deep sigh, a slight curling of his fingers around Ben's palm, then, eyes still closed, he tried to shift onto his side. Ben helped him ease forward onto his right hip and resettled the blankets over him. When he sat down again, he saw that Adam was watching him.

His son was calm, his face showing an alertness that Ben hadn't seen since before the accident.

Adam raised an eyebrow.

"It's true," Ben answered. "For some reason, you can't talk right now. Paul says it has something to do with the injury to your brain."

Adam squinted, as if he was having trouble following.

Ben realized he might not know what had happened. He spoke at a steady pace, almost leisurely. "You know that you've been ill."

Adam nodded once, a slow, careful movement.

"You were hurt in an accident." He paused, and when Adam seemed to be waiting, he continued. "There was a cave-in at the mine. You were hurt by the rocks coming down."

It was getting harder, he could see it.

"One of the rocks hit you on the side of the head."

Adam squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them and cricked his head to the side, as if to shake off a thought.

"Do you understand what I said?" Ben held his breath, praying. This was the most complicated thing he'd asked of his son since he'd been hurt.

Adam was trying, he could see it, but he also knew his son very well, and he could see by the tenseness of his mouth that he hadn't gotten all of it.

"Let me try again."

Adam shook his head. _No._

"Son?"

This time it was an almost angry chop of his left hand downward. _No!_

Ben sat back in his chair, surprised, but pleased that Adam was showing a definite opinion about something. Now if they could just figure out a way to talk . . . he waited as patiently as he could.

Eventually Adam pointed at Ben, then held his single finger up in the air.

"What is it?"

He pointed again and scowled.

"Me?"

Adam nodded and held his finger up again.

"One."

Again, he pointed at Ben and held up his finger. Then he pointed at his own chest and held up two fingers.

Ben thought for a moment. "I'm one, and you're two?"

Adam sighed and his face relaxed. He raised his hand slowly, higher and higher until he was pointing almost to the ceiling, then held up three fingers.

"If I'm one," Ben said thoughtfully, "and you're two, then three must be . . . Hoss?"

Adam nodded.

"And Joe is four."

Adam grinned, and Ben smiled back. "Then what is Hop Sing?"

Adam thought for a moment, then with a sly smile, he pulled his fingers together as if he were holding something and rotated his hand at the wrist, for all the world like he was stirring a pot of stew.

Ben laughed, delighted.

"And me?" Paul Martin said from the doorway.

He got a scowl and a finger poked in his direction several times. Paul burst out laughing. "All right, I get the idea. You're tired of being poked and prodded."

Adam reached out to his father and tapped his leg. When Ben turned back, he held up four fingers, a wistful expression on his face.

"You want Joe?" Ben asked.

Adam nodded. His face got very serious. He pointed at the doctor, then held up four fingers again. He waved his hand, still holding his fingers together, to the chair where Ben was sitting. He frowned, concentrating hard, as if he could will his father to understand.

"You want Joe, and you want Joe to sit here. And something about the doctor."

Adam squinted, a look that Ben was beginning to recognize as meaning that Adam wasn't understanding everything he was saying. He turned to Paul. "Can you figure out what he wants?"

Paul frowned as he thought. "Something about me and Joe."

Adam nodded and flapped his hand in the doctor's direction.

Ben took a deep breath. "This is like playing charades," he said, exasperated.

"Whatever works, Ben. It's as close as we've come to really talking to him."

Adam tapped his father again, held up his four fingers, and jabbed them towards the chair.

"He wants Joseph; that's clear enough." Ben rose. "That much, at least, I can do."

Adam sighed and closed his eyes, and as if exhausted by the exchange, he sank down into the pillows.

"I wonder . . ." Paul muttered.

Ben cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Downstairs," Paul said.

Ben nodded, and after a final tug of the covers over Adam's shoulder and a light stroke of his hair, led the way out. They were both silent as they went down the stairs, and when they reached the bottom, Paul headed for the settee while Ben went to the sideboard and retrieved the bottle of brandy and two glasses. He set them on the table in front of the fire, poured two generous measures, and settled with his into his favorite chair.

"What do you suppose he really wants?" he asked.

Paul swirled his brandy in the glass and inhaled the aroma. "Do you have those journals handy? The ones where you were keeping track of his progress?"

Ben set his glass on the table. "They're over there by my desk. There are two of them; which do you want?"

"The second, I think."

Ben retrieved both of them and handed one over, keeping the other for himself. "What are you looking for?" he asked as the doctor started thumbing through the pages.

"Hmm," Paul answered.

Ben resigned himself to waiting patiently. He'd gotten lost in his thoughts again when the door opened and Joe came in.

"Hey, Doc," he said in welcome as he hung up his hat. He didn't take off his jacket or gunbelt, but came over to his father's side instead. "How's Adam doing?"

"Better," Ben answered. "We're just trying to figure out what he wants."

Joe blinked. "Wants? You mean he asked for something?"

"In a way. We just don't understand all of it yet." Ben waved at him. "Take off your jacket, son; you're not going anywhere."

"But, Pa, I was—"

"You're finished for the day, son." Ben watched the expressions flit across his youngest's face, confusion the largest part. He softened his voice. "Adam wants you."

Joe's eyes shot to the top of the stairs, then flew back to his father. "How," he swallowed, "how do you know?"

Ben smiled. "It appears that I'm Cartwright number one, your oldest brother is Cartwright number two, Hoss is number three, and you are number four." He raised four fingers. "Adam wants number four."

Joe grinned with delight and started stripping off his jacket. "He told you that? He really told you that?"

"Well, it wasn't that easy, but yes."

He took his holster off, too, and strode to the credenza by the door to put them away. His steps slowed on the way back, though. "But why? I mean, I'm happy to sit with him, but what does he want?"

"I don't know," Ben answered.

"I think," inserted Paul, "that he might want Joe to explain what's going on."

Joe sank down onto the other end of the settee. "But I don't know what's going on. And why me?"

"I'm not sure," Paul admitted, "but judging by these journals, you've had the most success getting through to him."

Ben firmly squashed a small pang of jealousy. It didn't matter who Adam would listen to, as long as he'd listen to someone.

"For some reason, I suppose it's the concussion again, he seems to miss part of what the rest of us say to him. Maybe it's something about your voice or the way you talk to him – I don't know and at this point I don't really care. But I'd like to explain to you what I know, and then you try telling him. Let's see how far we can go with this."

Joe nodded and sat down. "Okay, give it a shot, and then I'll see what I can do."

* * *


	12. Whispers, Part 12 new 15 Nov

_**Whispers in Silence -- 12   
**by BeckyS   
15 Nov 2004_

Adam was sitting up against a pile of pillows when Joe entered the room that evening. He pulled a chair over next to the bed, to Adam's left.

"Hey, brother," he said softly. "You were asleep when I came by earlier."

One corner of Adam's mouth lifted in a small grin of pure satisfaction and he held up four fingers.

"Yep, that's me, Cartwright number four," Joe laughed, then got serious again. "Doc said you wanted me to talk to you. I dunno why—"

Adam lifted his hand to cup it behind his ear, then shrugged.

"You can hear me better than Pa?"

Adam thought for a moment. He raised one finger.

"Pa," Joe guessed.

Adam nodded, then moved his hand forward, but with halts and starts. Then he raised four fingers, and moved his hand forward again, this time smoothly. He shrugged again.

Joe tilted his head to the side, thinking. "So you get more of what I say than Pa, but you don't know why."

He nodded again. Joe wondered idly if he was getting tired of nodding. Well, if Adam could put up with the frustration, so could he. "Doc said you had questions about what happened – why you can't talk."

Adam waved his hand in a series of get-on-with-it circles.

Joe blew out a breath. "Okay, okay. Doc explained it to me, and I'll do the best I can. Maybe we can just hit the big stuff tonight – save questions for tomorrow."

Adam simply waited, regarding him steadily.

"You were up at the mine, checking out the drift to tunnel three. Do you remember?"

Adam slowly shook his head.

"Do you remember the mine?" Joe asked.

Adam's eyebrows drew together as he thought. He snaked his hand forward, then to the side, and to the side again, drawing a pattern Joe recognized as a map of the first two tunnels.

"Tunnel three?"

Adam rubbed at his forehead, and his breathing quickened. He frowned, as if trying to remember. He eventually drew a third line in the air, but the frown didn't go away and Joe saw a fine tremor in his hand.

"It's okay, you don't have to remember everything."

The frown eased a little.

"You were in the drift to tunnel three, and the supports gave way."

Adam's eyebrows drew together again. Something was definitely bothering him about the drift, _Probably because he got hurt there, _but Joe had been told to explain his brother's injuries. They could get back to the mine later if the doctor thought it was important. "You were hurt when the ceiling came down." He paused to see if Adam was following him. When he had his attention again, he went on. "One of the rocks hit you on the head." He knocked himself on the side of the head where Adam's injury was, and waited.

Adam's hand went slowly to the lump above his ear, prodded at it gently. He winced.

"It's been about four weeks since the cave-in. That's how bad you were hurt."

Adam raised his eyes to his brother, questioning.

"Yeah," he breathed. "We thought for sure you were gonna die. Heck, we were surprised you were alive when we hauled you out. Everyone else—" He broke off. Adam didn't need to know.

But he did. Joe guessed he could see it in his face. He finished his sentence. "The others died. Good men." He rubbed his hands against his pants leg, as if he were back at the mine, trying to clean the dust and blood from them. "We did what we could for their families."

He took a deep breath and went on. "One of the rocks that fell busted your skull. Doc says it hurt your brain. You were completely out for a solid week – and it's only the last day or so you've really been back with us."

Adam's gaze seemed to turn inward. He shifted his right leg, then his left, wincing a little. He lifted his right arm and studied the splint, then ran his left hand over his ribcage. Finally he turned back to Joe.

"That's pretty much all of it. A real bad gash in your leg, cracked ribs, some broken bones in your hand. Doc says the bones should be in pretty good shape by now, but they aren't healed yet. The leg was doing fine until you whacked it the other day, set it back a week or so." He paused, not sure how much of that his brother had taken in.

Adam raised his hand to his head again.

Joe nodded. "That's gonna take longer. You're still seeing double – or triple, right? That's why you feel sick a lot."

Adam's eyes widened in what Joe could only interpret as grief. His voice softened. "I don't know why you can't talk. Doc says it has to do with where you got hit on the head." He paused. "He doesn't know if it'll get better."

Adam nodded slowly. He reached for Joe's hand and squeezed tight once, then closed his eyes and sank back into the pillows, his head turned away.

Joe rose and looked down at his brother. "You're welcome," he said softly, and left him to his thoughts.

* * *

When Joe came back downstairs, Ben could hear the heavy steps long before he saw his son. Joe trudged over to the settee and flopped down, sliding down until his head rested on the back. He blew out a heavy sigh and said, "Good thing you don't want me to do anything else tonight; I'm whipped." He looked around. "Where's Doc?"

"Sent Harry to drive him home. He's working too hard." Ben tamped a little more tobacco into his pipe and looked his son over appraisingly. "How did it go?"

"I think I got through to him, at least the main part. He was pretty tired, though. I don't think he got it all." He rubbed at his eyes, and Ben wondered if it was from fatigue or emotion.

"I'm sure you did the best you could," he said gently.

Joe stared into the fire. "It's hard, Pa."

"Hard to figure out how to talk to him? Hard to know what he wants?" He lit his pipe and drew deeply. "I know."

Joe held his fist against his chest. "It's hard . . . in here."

Ben felt his eyes fill. He knew exactly what Joe was talking about. "Yes, son," he answered. "It is."

* * *


End file.
